Grand Garden Junk Junkie

 

"Lily"

I may have already mentioned that I am a garden junk junkie. I have all sorts of wonderful things tucked into my flower beds: bird houses, found objects, interesting pieces of driftwood, and chunks of marble, fantastic “flowers” -- constructed of China plates and bowls and vases. One of my favorite pieces of “junk” is a scrap metal dinosaur—or maybe it’s a dragon, I can’t really tell---that my oldest son welded together when he was nine years old and went on a “take your son to work day” with dad. The dragon-saurus is wonderful and deserves a name, but somehow has never acquired one. Nevertheless, it faithfully stands guard in my garden, once upon a time I used it to give maundering elk the evil eye.

Shark!!

There are all manner of steppingstones that my kids have made over the years. My favorites are the ones they made in Mr. Westerberg’s 3-4 grade class that include the handprint of the “artist” pressed into the back. It’s hard to believe my towering six-foot sons ever had hands that small, but I have the proof, imprinted in cement.

My gardens also seem to be a repository for forgotten toys. Every so often, when transplanting a seedling, I’ll unearth a long-lost Hot Wheel car or a Match Box bulldozer that was abandoned when the Worst Mother in the World made the construction crew come in and take a bath. And then there are the plastic animal figurines that wander around the edges of my garden. My grandkids enjoy wandering around the garden, helping me water and discover treasures their fathers and uncles have left behind and adding their own bits and pieces to my collection of precious “junk.”

Look what we found, Nana Sugar!

My newest edition, from Mexico

Garden Pests, Adorable Edition

Baby Annie and Baby Abby

 There’s a new pest eating my plants—and the sad thing is, I have only myself to blame. I introduced them into the environment myself. In my defense I will say that they were so cute and helpless and small I never considered that they would grow up and wreak havoc on my gardening efforts.

They started out just doing minor damage—a bent plant here, an up rooted plant there.

Time passes, and I forget that these particular pests are just lying-in-wait, biding their time---and sooner or later I plant the plant they find irresistible, and they absolutely. Will. Not. Stop. Until it is destroyed. Utterly.

That’s right—I tried growing my own catnip.

My cats are big fans of catnip and have developed quite an addict—er, APPRECIATION of the herb. My friend Eileen grows it for her cats and has often gifted my cats cutting or two. I thought it would make a nice change from the usual dried catnip and decided I’d grow some for them.

The first year I planted it, they rolled on the plant and killed it. This year I thought I’d grow it in a pot until it was big enough that they wouldn’t be able to destroy it. But where could I keep it that the cats wouldn’t get to it? The kitchen widow sill? No, too accessible. The top of the fridge? Good, but not enough natural light. I took it outside, looking for a bright, yet inaccessible spot...Aha! the top of the playground slide, they’ll never find it up there...

SUCH BAD CATZ

The Famous Jardines Botanicos de Vallarta

While in Mexico, I had the opportunity to tour the Vallarta Botanical Gardens. There are nearly 80 acres of lush tropical foliage—most of it native-- at 1,300 feet above sea level, located about an hour outside of Puerto Vallarta. The rich diversity of flora and fauna-- most of which I didn’t even come close to recognizing—was mind boggling. And the colors were enough to put Pantone to shame!   

Everything was so lush and exuberant in its growth … it was a shock to recognize things I had only grown as small house plants looking more like “old growth” in their native environment.

Look Ma!  Free-range House Plants!

 And even the zinnias seemed to be on steroids.

The Botanical gardens also serve as a bird sanctuary. We observed hummingbirds and several species of jays feeding among the flowers. There were some spectacularly colored blackbirds with yellow patches on their shoulders, but even more yellow when they unfolded their wings to fly. Unfortunately, they were a bit camera shy and I didn’t get a good photo of them.

The Guinea hens where a different matter. Intent on some sort of mating ritual that seemed to include zigging and zagging around visitor’s legs, the Guinea hens were the opposite of shy. We had to keep from tripping over them.

But you don’t have to travel to the gardens to see spectacular floral displays. This was just a random tree, shading random street parking:

Only the Names Have Been Changed...

 

...To protect the innocent. Or the guilty. Whatever, I don’t judge.

Recently, a friend called and asked if I’d like to go to Puerto Vallarta with him. In July. For a “Dental Tourism.” Of course, I said no. Mexico? In July? With Dentists? (Sorry Dr. LeMert—no offense intended.) I hung up on his nonsense.

Then I called him back and said YES—because Mexico, a potentially heavily medicated friend, an opportunity to “pad my 401K”—because blackmail is such an ugly word—beach, pool, margaritas and nonsense? I’m IN!

My new friend 'Rita

 

The Weather in Vallarta was HOT—with an extra helping of humidity. After the first two days we stopped eating in all the cute little sidewalk cafes and started looking for restaurants that had their glass windows closed. Closed windows equal air conditioning—everyone knows that. And air conditioning in 90% humidity is a gift from God, be a shame to refuse it. Which is how we spent 10 days in Mexico eating Swedish food—because air conditioning.

About day eight, the weather was a little cooler, so we decided to mix it up a bit and walk a half mile away to a chic restaurant along the river, and sample their delicious menu—and their A/C. The food was delicious, the service was impeccable, the setting was beautiful. It begins to rain lightly—excellent! That should cool things off for a walk home!

It rained all through dinner. Actually, “rain” is not the correct word—apparently “cyclone warning” is more applicable. (Editior’s note: and THAT’S why you check your weather app, even when you’re on vacation.)  

Singing in the rain...

Any way—long story short, that’s how we came to be wading back to our hotel in the middle of a tropical deluge, belting out “Singing in the Rain” at the top of our lungs and only a hint of Tequila on “somebody’s” breath.

THE END. 

Unless Philip’s check doesn’t clear. Then I’ll have more stories to share.

"Philip"--possibly not his real name.

Unsolicited Advice

 I am one of those rare people who will offer you unsolicited advice. Wait—hear me out. Unsolicited advice is the best advice. 

Often, when we seek advice from others, we give careful consideration to whom we ask. For example, parents usually don’t seek parenting advice from their child-free friends. Although, when I hark back to my child-free days, I had plenty of opinions on proper parenting—it’s just that few people cared to hear them. I’m not saying that stopped me...but my friends with kids didn’t come knocking when they need to know how to deal with little Becky’s biting.

Guess which one of this adorable babies
is *not* my grandchild?
Hint: It's not the little girl...It's cousin
Wes Burbee and he's delicious.

  Anyway, I lost my point. Ah!  Here it is! My point is that unasked for advice is unbiased advice.

When I want to do something—say travel to Mexico-- I ask my adventure-oriented friends if I should go or not. If I were trying to avoid an upcoming trip south of the border, I’d ask my cozy, stay-at-home friends if I should go or just stay home? Staying home would most likely be their advice.

Unsolicited advice, on the other hand, comes to you free of biases. It’s spontaneous, it’s free, and it may contain encouragement you didn’t even know you needed.

Spontaneous advice can be closely related to “Wild Hair” advice, but you really shouldn’t over think either one. When someone approaches you and suggests, “You know what you ought to do...” don’t dismiss them out of hand. Hear them out. It can be good to open your horizons, stretch your wings, and kick over the boundaries fencing you in. Try saying “YES!” Book the trip, go bungee jumping, run with the bulls...

I mean, I’m not going to do that—it sounds dangerous and crazy. But I bet you’d have fun...

If you were wondering what any of these pictures have to do with this post, the answer is NOTHING. They are just bonus content of adorableness...You're welcome!

Past Is Prologue, Part Two

 Memory--both bane and blessing!  When Shane was first lost to me, the times I was impatient, crabby, or unkind came flooding back. In that First Worst Week I stapled the pages of my journal closed so I would be unable to go back into my past and review the times I had been less than my best self. And by “less than my best self” I might be referring to the time I told him he “was just lucky I was such an F-ing saint.” Except I didn’t say it as “F-ing.” And I might have “said” it at top volume—sounding more like a Shakespearean fishwife than a saint. Which, even at that time, the incongruity made me laugh. Do Saints go around proclaiming their Sainthood at top volume? With swearing? Probably not.

I experienced the common compulsion to Deify my lost love. The annoyances fell away. Shane was the Saint, a unicorn, a man above men. When my husband was stripped from my life, any of the imperfections became unimportant—all that mattered was his essence: his love, his humor, his gentle spirit. The fact that he insisted on folding the towels “wrong” no longer mattered.

 

Except—it kind of does. In keeping the memory of those little “quirks” about Shane, he gets to live on—more fully fleshed out than just a saint. The kids and I keep his “Shane-isms” alive in our conversations. We tell stories, we make jokes. We threaten to delay a loved one’s imminent departure by changing the oil or rotating the tires on their car, “real quick, won’t take but a minute.” 

Summer 1978

Seven years ...and love survives at the cellular level. Even as we shed our past, dissolve and transform, we carry the DNA of love into our future. Love is both energy and matter—it never ends, no matter how many years have passed.

Past Is Prologue, Part One

“Outside in the porch swing with my first cup of tea. The morning is cool, as it should be in June, and the swing rocks slowly. It seems a day of infinite possibilities—a day when a boy on a motorcycle might kiss a girl on a horse. A long, glorious summer day that will give way to a short summer night, a night of stars and kisses, whispered promises and scraps of poems.

For me, this is a month loaded with events and memories. Events that are celebrated but missing some of their zest. My birthday. Father’s Day, a bittersweet day--three beautiful young men a testament to our love’s immortality. Shane’s birthday at the end of this month, a day that has been traditionally celebrated with a huge German chocolate cake—his favorite. Memories are both blessing and curse.”  

I wrote that seven years ago, that First Worst June. Seven years—how can that be? Seven years since that January morning when Shane went out for gasoline and never returned. It is both forever ago and just yesterday. 

When I was a kid, I believed the prevailing wisdom that our bodies completely renew themselves every seven years—that all of our cells are gradually replaced over that time and we are a “new” person.  It seems so cruel to me now, to think that none of the surface of my skin bears Shane’s touch, no pat on my shoulder, no warm embrace. There is only the memory of that touch, and the tears spill. 

Time heals—yet seems the cruelest of chrysalises—a carapace that protects as we transform—but we still have to dissolve from who we were. Our future self begins to shape itself inside of the walls of Time. That process is both horrific and beautiful.